


Between Here and Hell

by Delenn (goddessdel)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Drabble Collection, F/M, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-01-01
Updated: 2005-10-16
Packaged: 2018-09-23 22:47:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9685205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddessdel/pseuds/Delenn
Summary: A series of drabbles I've written for BtVS over the years. Various lengths, pairings, ratings, topics.





	1. Between Here and Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Note that I haven't gone back and edited these, and they were all written a very long time ago. Some in first person. Hopefully any redeeming features will make up for the lack.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble-ish. Being lost, maybe not as physically as emotionally, trapped somewhere that is inescapable and being unable to see where the exits even would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated: PG
> 
> Date Started/Finished: April 7th, 2005

Since she’d been… back… he didn’t know what to do. Couldn’t decide whether to give her the hell she was convinced she was in, or tell her stories of what real hells were like, and shake her until she believed him.

They were stuck in a place that wasn’t quite either. Because there were moments when she came to him, eyes so full of pain, that he would turn the world inside out if it would make her feel better. There were moments when he tried.

There were terrible moments when he realized that nothing would work, that she would never be whole again no matter how hard he tried to hold her pieces together.

Times when he thought that she should never have come to him, never picked him, because he was absolutely the worst person to hold her together. When he thought that was exactly why she chose him. That she wanted them to fall apart together and still say that she’d made an effort.

Nights when they were so close and she was so far away that the pain floored him. Where he knew that he was only there to help her fall further and he was completely willing because it was what she wanted, and he’d give her the world upside down and inside out.

Days, days where he didn’t see her and could pretend that she was okay without him. Days where he saw her, happy with her friends, and he was convinced, for just a moment, that she was fine. When she wasn’t with him.

Then she’d turn, her eyes would catch him off guard, and he’d know, just know, that she wasn’t okay at all.

When she came to him it was always bittersweet. Sweet because she was there, with him. Bitter because he knew what she wanted from him.

He didn’t have the heart to tell her that all she had to do was ask. Didn’t matter what they thought, what he wanted, what it would do to anybody, but he’d give her what she wanted. Give her an escape from this hell if that was what she needed. Give her the world upside down. Couldn’t deny her, couldn’t pretend if she asked.

If she asked. He wouldn’t give in before then. Wouldn’t stop trying before then.

Sometimes, she’d look at him, when he was ready to tear her head off or kiss her or cry, just the worst moment, and she’d look at him. And those eyes, those clear eyes that used to see the world as a good place, spoke of things she’d never tell him, love she’d never admit to, pain that made him weak-kneed…

Locked in her gaze there were worlds to explore, when she let her guard down and just was. Such expression, such knowledge, and he’d know that she was more alive in her eyes than anywhere else. He’d follow those unspoken wonders, trying to unlock the secret to making her whole again, lost.

Lost in her.

And, he’d think that maybe they were both lost in the same place, somewhere between here and hell, this moment and the next, and that maybe they’d never get out, but they’d be lost there together. Thought that maybe, maybe he understood.

Wished he was strong enough to pick a place, a moment. To let her go.


	2. Broken Goddess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whispers it against her skin, delicious, intoxicating, sinful, inviting. A dark abyss for the demon and his broken goddess to reside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated: PG-13
> 
> Date Started/Finished: February 14th 2004

Her wings are gone and she doesn’t know how she lost them or where. All she knows is that the shimmering beacons of light that made everything good and right are gone.

And she’s drowning. There’s darkness everywhere. It’s cold and harsh, and she can’t seem to open her eyes to the light again.

Not alone, whispered in her head.

He’s there with her, drowning with her. Hard as steel but reassuringly voiced, soft as silk, tempting as sin.

She doesn’t know if he’s pulling her upwards or down, deeper, but either way, he’s got her, and all she can do is cling to him.

And now she knows. They’re in a dark abyss for the demon and his broken goddess to reside.

Her, she’s broken. Oh. What’s wrong with her? She doesn’t know.

He does though. Whispers it against her skin, whispering how the goddess fell down to the demon plane, how she broke, and how he’s got her now.

Is that good or bad? She can’t remember. All she knows is that the things he’s doing to her are evil and wrong and they feel so deliciously good.

Suddenly she doesn’t care where she lost her wings.

Doesn’t care that he’s black and white all mixed up while she’s golden and pure. Doesn’t care that someone is being used here.

Purity was over-rated.

His words caress her mind while his hands caress her body. Reverent but bruising.

She’s with him now, no escape, no light, just the darkness and he’s broken too. Everyone down here is.

And maybe he’ll break her a little more so that she fits in right and proper.

It hurts so. White-hot pain of just being with him, of how wrong it is, how wrong she is, how broken.

She’s never felt more alive.

They are two broken pieces, coming together. And the edges are jagged, and it hurts like hell, but in the end they fit so perfectly that you can’t tell they’re two separate pieces of two different puzzles.

Did she break herself, or did he crack her? She doesn’t know.

Fallen goddess, come join us.

Delicious, intoxicating, sinful, inviting.

If she can’t fly away anymore, can’t get to the light, she might as well enjoy the darkness.

See the demons lurking under the surface of the night and embrace them. Embrace him.

A demon. Her demon.

She may be broken, but he’s hers, broken or not.

Whispers it against her skin, delicious, intoxicating, sinful, inviting.

She’s falling, falling, the broken goddess. Yet, he’s there to catch her in his steel grip, hard but soft, bruising but loving.

A dark abyss for the demon and his broken goddess to reside.


	3. Burning Agony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An excruciating pain so unlike anything he’s ever experienced that he doesn’t have the words to describe it. Not that words were ever really his thing. He thinks it’s a shame there’s nobody around to hear his sarcastic laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated: PG
> 
> Date Started/Finished: February 14th 2004
> 
> Takes place at the end of Chosen. Spike POV.

As the world exploded into blinding colors, all he could see was her face. Through the burning agony of dying and being reborn, all he could see was her face.

He got a soul for her, fought for her, saved the world for her, and now he’s leaving for her. In a nice ripe package of fire and pain and torment.

Figures it’s kind of fitting for him.

It burns, not just the fire but his heart, he feels it break and burn, burn for her, beat for her, die for her. An excruciating pain so unlike anything he’s ever experienced that he doesn’t have the words to describe it.

Not that words were ever really his thing.

He thinks it’s a shame there’s nobody around to hear his sarcastic laugh.

Being there but not, that was a type of that same burning agony. A ghost. Can’t touch, can’t be there, and can’t be anywhere else. Drove him nearly batty. More so than the soul ever did.

And now is the worst of all the pain. He’s here. Really here. But not there. Not with her. And he can’t go because he’d die for her.

Did die for her.

But he can’t let her die for him. Not that nice normal life she finally has.

He can’t go back.

And every day that he looks out those protected windows to a sun that can’t hurt him, he feels it. Lives with it, doesn’t breathe with it because he’s here, and he’s functioning, and he’s not with her.

She’s always done it to him. Made him feel it. Ripped him to shreds, near or far. She’s his everything.

His burning agony.


	4. Glare of Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ficlet. Summer as a metaphor. And it’s not always pretty. Post-Chosen, Buffy POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I blame the idea that summer can only be a metaphor for passion/life/youth/happy things, and my determination to make it not-so. Irony, what irony?
> 
> Rated: PG
> 
> Date Started/Finished: October 16th, 2005

It’s summer when she finally has time to breathe. To give up on the speeches and battle plans, so that she can sit down and live, again. For the first time in years.

And she is living. But she’s mourning too.

It never struck her so off guard before, the sweet sunshine and warm nights.

She thinks that maybe it’s because she’s so far from home (there is no home anymore) and here, one can actually feel the seasons shifting steadily. One day closer to fall. One day farther from spring.

Or, maybe she was too busy just trying to live last summer, trying to reconcile that the annual almost-destruction of the world was nearly caused by her best friend. Trying to forget that, the summer before, she’d been dead. At peace.

While everyone else is trying to enjoy the last vestiges of sun, of the sunny Sunnydale California that they will never see again, she’s hiding on a balcony, overlooking the water and keeping the walls between her and the sun.

It burns. Walking around in this boisterous place with all the tanned, happy people, she feels momentarily more dead than she did all of last year. And it hurts worse because now she actually wants to be alive.

Maybe the soft, calming glint of a summer sunset has never struck her properly before. Or she’s just forgotten, too trained on the focus of the night.

Seven years of her life, two deaths, multitudes of monsters, and a California tan, all lost to the sweet, sickeningly-warm nights that could have been in July or January, for all the difference it made.

She’s even a little bitter, hateful at the consistently shining world around her, when her summers have always been marked with death and pain and tragedy. Makes her feel like a bloody martyr.

This time, she doesn’t know what to make of the warm, cleansing air. Not sure whether she should hate it, or rejoice. Because, of course, there’s been death and tragedy and pain, so that all she wants to do, every time she blinks up at the daylight, is to curl up in a dank, dark cave and wish she had her darkness to hold her.

But there’s also freedom. This time, the shackles that have destroyed her summers, turning them prematurely to autumn, are permanently gone, and she’s left to her own, by everyone’s choosing.

The darkness, the winter and fall and barely-spring have been there so long, she barely knows where to begin in the brightness. It makes her afraid and lonely and tired.

Clear, shining, white light is piercing through her soul and revealing all the flaws. She has to learn to stand in the sunshine again, before she can try out being human.

It’s too soon, though.

The glare is still too bright, the days too long, and she thinks she’ll wait a little longer, until summer crisps into autumn, before she’ll try on that role again. Right now, the darkness is comforting despite the noticeable absence of its most notorious member.

She’s mourning. And she’s waiting. But, still…

Still…

For the first time, in so long, she’s alive.


	5. Masochism is Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is actually a comedy, what can I say: it’s random, obscure, and humorous. Or, so I hope. Anything else will give it away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated: PG-13 for suggestiveness and, as the title may suggest, mentions of masochism.
> 
> Date Started/Finished: May 12th 2003

“Did you know that’s actually the title of a book?”

A pause, “Sorry, honey. What is?”

“There’s this book, it’s called ‘Masochism Is Fun.’ Have you ever heard rubbish like that?” Is the patient reply.

“Really?” Again, a pause, the sound of running water and clashing dishes. “Well, you would know, wouldn’t you,” it’s not a question.

Fingernails drumming on a table, pop music playing loudly in some other room, and the shuffling of papers become apparent as the silence drags out. “I’m not a masochist,” the water turns off disbelievingly, “I’m a sadist, there’s a difference.”

Noises are mocking him and so is the dishwasher, “Okay, honey, you’re the Big Bad… you love to hurt other people, so, I can never see you again. I’m not emotionally stable enough to date a sadist, I just don’t heal that fast.”

The water turns on again and life resumes to normal, even the faint sounds of birds chirping outside the shuttered window are apparent. Cautious at first, the drumming on the table becomes louder, more confident. “Was that a joke I hear? Sarcasm from you? That’s it, the world is officially ending.”

“Masochism and sarcasm, wow, you just know everything about the ism’s, don’t you? Look, I’m serious, I’m not a masochist so I can’t put up with a sadist.”

Pounding pop music stops for a second as the CD changes and then a whole new group screams out the same cheery beats, unaware of the discussion going on in this room. “So you’re saying,” the pauses have been getting shorter, the speaking sharper, “that I’m a masochist… doesn’t that make you a sadist?”

A splash of water and the flap of rubber gloves hitting the sink as she spins around, “I did not say that!”

There is no pause this time, the conversation not disturbed by the scraping of a chair on the floor. “Seems to me that you always did enjoy a good rough ‘n’ tumble…”

Short footsteps getting closer, fists balling in time with the annoying repetitive beat from the other room, “Let’s make something very clear, I don’t like hurting you and I don’t like getting hurt.”

Breath right next to her ear, the tap turned off and a lull in the music from the other room. “Wasn’t talking ‘bout that kind of rough ‘n’ tumble.”

“Oh,” it’s not a pause but a conversation without words, dueling without fists or weapons.

Skidding to a halt, Dawn sighs, “Young impressionable teenager, I do not need to see you two making out by the dishes. I may never eat on those plates again.”

“Ahem,” Spike pulls away and resumes his seat at the table, picking up his newspaper as Buffy tries to discreetly let go of the twister for the shades as though she weren’t considering opening them.

Dawn looks between the two of them and leans over Spike to grab the cereal while sneaking a peek at his newspaper. “Oh, were you guys fighting too? What about?”

“Your sister,” a seething glare is exchanged between slayer and vampire, “apparently thinks I’m a masochist because I pointed out the title of some idiotic book about it.”

Noting the book with satisfaction, Dawn curiously asks, “Buffy?”

Making a great show of dumping the clean dishes back into the sink for Dawn, Buffy replies, “I was minding my own business, doing the dishes and he goes off about how we’re both sadists, which you are way too young to look like you know what means, Dawnie.”

Laughter echoes as Dawn tunes out the conversation, putting on her headphones so the same faint beat of pop music is heard, “Okay, I have school,” she gives Spike a peck on his cheek, “you guys be good. No sexcapades any place where I could sit, walk, eat, lay or visit, deal?”

The brunette is out of the house quickly leaving the two bottle blondes staring at the door. Spike flips the page on his newspaper, taking another sip of his cup of blood, and Buffy turns her back on the new set of dishes, coming to sit next to Spike instead. “Oh, god, is this what she considers normal?”

Grinning mischievously, Spike replies, “This is normal for us, luv.” Lazily, he announces, “Says here that there’s a book about sexcapades too, want to get it, pet?”

Buffy moves from next to Spike to on his lap, “Sure,” at his incredulous look she smiles girlishly, “seeing as I did the dishes, it’s officially your turn again.”

“Oi, Slayer, The Big Bad does not do dishes when it’s your… oh… right then.”


	6. Tear Me Up Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buffy POV about the events that happened before she finally realized who she was meant to be with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated: R
> 
> TW: Deals with the events of "Seeing Red".
> 
> Date Started/Date Finished: May 7th, 2003/May 16th, 2003

I always knew we were “meant to be.” I knew that we’d sleep together, and I knew that we’d love each other. It never occurred to me what could happen between knowing that and it actually happening.

By now, it’s pointless to get into when I stopped hating him, when I started caring, and when I came to that striking realization. Besides, if I’ll be honest with myself, it probably happened almost the moment he started becoming an everyday presence, but I was being the good girl with the normal boring boyfriend… someone who would never go for that kind of evil creature, who couldn’t afford to again.

Sometimes I wonder what the hell messed my head up so much; then I remember, oh yeah that would have been being dead. That has some lasting effects on a girl, you know. Being ripped out of heaven by your friends, well that’s just the icing on the cake.

I did survive in the end, figured it out. I always do, don’t I? It’s from training and slayer senses, I can save the world again and again but it took me a while to find true love. There were just some… things… I didn’t count upon.

Dying, well, let’s just say that it took me a long time to realize just how crazy I was that first year. I didn’t want to come back, and I deserved it, but he didn’t.

He didn’t deserve to love me and have me insult him, use him and use his love for me then twist it up inside so that it was wrong and horrible. Where in that sentence did I forget if I was talking about him or me?

Of course, what he did to me, there’s no excuse, but there isn’t much for what I did either. I abused him, used him… he tried to rape me. Wow, don’t we sound like the dysfunctional couple of the century.

I didn’t understand what it meant to love somebody and I didn’t understand how to handle the feelings I had. I was angry at the world and I took it out on him. I couldn’t hit my friends so I hit him, and he let me. He probably should have left after I thought I killed that girl and he tried to stop me from turning myself in, but he didn’t leave, and I didn’t stop.

Then there was Tara, and Willow after her death. Tara was one of us, she was kind and sweet and her dying was like watching the last pure, good thing I could see in this world leave.

Nobody has any idea how hard it was for me, to get up there and fight my best friend for years, to know that one of us had to die and that it was her or the world. To look at her and see the bruises I was leaving… it took awhile but eventually I related it to him also.

I used to sit up at night and stare at the ceiling hoping that when I closed my eyes this time I wouldn’t be here anymore. That I wouldn’t see the beaten and pained faces of my loved ones in my sleep. Still, seeing him again was a fresh reminder of betrayal and for a long time after we were “meant to be,” the dreams of what he did to me came back - of what I did to him.

I no longer see myself as a killer, though I did for a long time. I’ve realized that I did what I had to, what nobody else would do, and maybe I made the wrong decisions sometimes, but at least I made them. Funny thing is, I don’t see myself as much of anything anymore, and certainly not that hero my friends used to fancy me to be.

Admittedly, I never understood why I played their game when I came back, or why I actually tried to stay their hero. I know though - it was for Dawnie, I tried so hard for her, never noticing the darkness eating me away.

That girl I was then, I don’t even remember being her; I look back on her in memories as though she were someone else, someone whose brain is alien to me. My goal was to survive back then; now I realize I’m dead and my goal is simply to function this day and make it to the next.

We both died, the difference is she stayed dead and I came back. I had to live. I had to live to see my sister look at me with hatred, my best friends with indifference and pain, and to realize that Giles would betray me like all the other men in my life.

Somehow I’ve gotten ahead of myself… did I forget that last big apocalypse? With Faith and the potentials, everyone, telling me that I’d made the wrong decisions for seven years, even if I saved the world. That I lived for them to be a failure? That I wasn’t good enough to save the world again?

I did anyway, save the world that is, except I had no support, and in the end, they all looked at me with blame for their mistakes. I didn’t lead them well enough, so of course all that happened was my fault. And when we didn’t all survive, they blamed me again because I hadn’t wanted to survive.

Nowadays they are gone, but still they all sit around in my head and have battles over who will torture me with accusations and when. Some friends - they won’t even leave me alone inside my own head.

Never mind all that, because you know, we were meant to be, and now we’re together, so apparently my scars have just disappeared.

Don’t get me wrong, I love him with every fiber of my being and while he has hurt me, he hasn’t left me like everyone else… I just don’t have much of a being anymore. But that’s okay with him because he went back there with me, lived in the Hellmouth with me, fought with me, and he’s not so whole inside anymore either.

The rudeness of demons appearing around us, interrupting our quiet moment by some of my friends’ gravestones, pulls me away from my thoughts.

I catch his eyes with my own as I let his hand slip out of my grasp and I can’t help but wonder if demons will ever learn. No demon has successfully taken over the world or sent it into fiery torment on our watch, and they’ve yet to kill us.

True, we won’t survive this apocalypse any better than the last, but we’ll live, we’ll continue on to the next day and the one after that. The world will be here for others to enjoy, never knowing that every time it comes close to ending we lose another part of ourselves, another of our friends.

Remember because we were “meant to be,” and for Spike and I, this is our happily ever after.


	7. Violent Tendencies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a silly little fic inspired by something I read from CosmicFish. The gang presents Spike with a theory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: PG-13 for language.

She thinks I have ADD!?

I mean, what the fuck is up with that?

Said I tend to be violent. Well, shit, did she not notice that I’m a demon? Or have I become such a soddin’ poof, that it’s not evident?

Oh, I forgot **sporadically** violent. Excuse me. Again, with the demon thing, do I have to bloody spell it out for her?

Claims I’m downright impatient. I say, so? Why should I have to be patient? Before the chip, you talked over thirty seconds, I killed you. Nothing strange about that.

Went on and on about how hyper and jumpy I am. Took some bloody offense to that, I did. Never been accused of being “jumpy” before, and it wasn’t big on the list, I can tell you.

It’s all the Whelp’s fault, thought it would be funny to make a little chronicle of the brain defects I had symptoms for, made Red find websites and everything. Tara thought it was funny, Dawn thought it was fucking hilarious; Buffy took it seriously.

Leave it to the Slayer to take the Whelp’s attempts at degrading me as a serious “problem.”

So what if I fit all the symptoms for ADD? I’m a vampire for fuck’s sake; I think that changes it a little.

S’not like it matters, Slayer’d find some reason to hate me anyway. Some reason why I’m not good enough for her, gods forbid I might actually love her!

Oh, apparently I’m bipolar too. Didn’t even call it that last time I checked, had to go look it up. That was embarrassing. Should’a known they’d set me up like that, all ganging up on me.

Oh, Spike’s stupid, he doesn’t know what bipolar is! Spike has ADD, put him on drugs!

Bloody hell, not like they pay-attention to the fact that I’m over a hundred and twenty years old! Back then you were sane, or locked up!

Besides, I’m a demon, who’s sick and twisted enough to classify what’s wrong with a demon? Soddin’ Whelp, that’s who!

And the nerve!

Slayer looked all shy, thought maybe she was realizing what a bloody stupid idea the whole thing had been, and what’d she go an do, the stupid cow?

Presents me with a Ritalin prescription! Then goes on to explain that it’ll help mellow me out, and that everyone “like me” is on it.

Asked her what she meant, “like me,” I did, wanted to know if this was a new way to control demons.

Of course, the bint didn’t think it was funny.

Finally, I gave up and told her I wasn’t of the plan to let even more shit mess with my mind.

The chip’s bad enough, like I want to add drugs to the mix! Apparently, I’m soddin’ lucky Dawn told them where to shove it. They were planning of making an issue out of the matter.

Just imagine, a demon with soddin’ ADD! Never heard the like in over a century!


	8. Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A unique and uninhibited view on maybe the most complicated “non-relationship” in the Buffy-Verse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated: PG-13
> 
> Date Started/Finished: June 19th 2003
> 
> [Meant to be Dawn's POV.]

It’s like seeing entire nations fall and die, watching them. They think I can’t understand, but I do, I see more then ever, not being part of it all, regulated to by-stander status.

I see every bite, scratch, and cut inflicted. I see all the wounds and bruises, both inside and out. I watch eyes deflating from punches too hard and concentrated to be from a normal fight, I see finger marks on arms, bruises on everything else.

But most of all, I see the look in their eyes when the other isn’t paying attention, when no one is paying attention but me. I see the half glances and the “accidental” brushes of bodies. And somehow those looks don’t match up with the bruises, and it confuses them how that can be, I can see it.

To me the whole thing is obvious, and I’m just waiting for them to catch up with the program.

Underneath the scratches there’s something, something that keeps them coming back and makes them breathe harder when the other is near. Below all the useless stuff, if either of them could take a moment from being stubborn and listen, they’d hear it; see it.

The truth.

Because the way they look at each other, everyone else even half looking could see, beneath it all, there are real feelings. Not hurt or pain or disgust. Not the self-loathing that they would admit to, more then that.

Because “you hurt the ones you love,” yeah, I understand it all right.

I see everything perfectly, they love each other, and if they would take two seconds to let that remark pass as probably having been said harmlessly, they would see it too.

Maybe that’s why they stay so determined, so they don’t have to look below it and see that they’re in love, really, truly, fairy-tale in love. And maybe that love is festering and bruised, but in its own way it’s beautiful, because they’ve never been normal and their love shouldn’t be either. It’s extra, different but above everything else, just like them.

I see it all, and I see that every mean word comes from having missed that look that said it all, from not being willing to let go of pride first. Really, they are the stubbornest people that ever existed, but maybe they’ll finally figure it out.

Because pretty soon even dead people will get it, and I mean the in-the-ground dead people not the walking-around dead people, and confusing much?

I just hope they figure it out before they beat each other into a pulp because that would be kinda bad. See, I even get the whole wow massively-messed-up-ness of it all.

How’s that for understanding?


	9. Images from a Broken Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fragments of dreams and reality from Buffy’s mind as she sleeps help her realize a shocking truth that she wasn’t ready to admit to herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated: R
> 
> Date Started/Finished: August 12th 2003
> 
> Left purposefully ambiguous.

“I love you,” she says and she’s above him, all around him, everywhere, glowing in the light.

No, it’s candlelight, there are candles surrounding them, he lit them before. “I love you,” she says again, rising above him and then falling back down, taking him deeper, into herself, her soul and heart.

A broken goddess. His.

And he knows it’s his fault, but he wouldn’t trade this moment because he realizes that he’ll have to let her go eventually, and that’s with a sooner rather than later. “I love you,” she murmurs then cries out, still pounding above him, on top of him.

She says it again, “I love you,” and again, “I love you,” each word punctuated with gasps and moans as she moves them both closer towards that moment of peace and ecstasy they are seeking.

There’s an explosion in the distance but neither notices, too wrapped up in one another, in the way her long blonde hair falls over her shoulders, whipping around with every precise movement of hers. The way her eyes shine with truth when she speaks on each downward thrust mesmerizes him. “I love you.”

But he’s dragging her down, trying to pull her closer and suddenly the candles are gone, blown out. And they’re falling, falling, the floor is collapsing and they’re sinking into some unknown place.

A dark abyss for the demon and his broken goddess to reside.

…|…

“I love you,” he says, and she can see him there, his black-clothed, duster covered form in her doorway. He’s circled in silver light, an outline from the nightlight in the hallway.

Then he’s slipping into her bed, under the covers, with her. And she is struck by how much she doesn’t want him there, doesn’t want him here, in her room, in her bed.

He’s managed to shed his clothes but she missed it. Slowly, reverently, he runs his hands along her pajama-covered body as though he’s afraid of breaking her.

Then his hands have grasped the material and he’s ripping it from her body. She doesn’t want this, not here, not him; she doesn’t want him. But he rolls on top of her with no resistance.

“I love you,” he says, sliding into her, hard, fast, just like they both enjoy. She won’t cry out. He says it again and again with each powerful thrust as he pounds into her.

“I love you,” breathe in, slam harder, “I love you,” gasp, moan, “I love you,” he’s repeating it but it’s not a mantra, each word is sharp and clear, as though he’s trying to make her see something.

But it’s not enough, she needs something… more, she needs more.

As they grow closer she pulls his head down to her neck and he whispers one last time, “I love you,” before he bites down as they reach the point of no return, blood gushing, her soul draining; sleep.

…|…

She wakes feeling groggy, her hand to her neck, feeling the dreaded mark, a mark; she doesn’t know if it’s his or not.

Him: so peaceful, so beautiful, sleeping next to her in her bed, dead to the world. So trusting, he knows she would never hurt him, she won’t; she can’t.

Feet move without her consent and before she knows it, she’s up, standing by the window, hand on the shade. She won’t lift it, won’t hurt him; he trusts her and loves her and she couldn’t do that to him.

So she doesn’t look at the shade, she studies him instead: still, perfect, pale, like a statue. Platinum hair against alabaster skin.

Face turned to the side, towards her, covers pushed down, his back visible, surrounded in a sea of red. His clear blue eyes open and catch hers as flames explode across her vision, reflected from his gaze.

Perfect, so beautiful, but he’s covered in fire, and then she knows. “I love you,” she breathes as he explodes, her words like his ashes drift in the wind.

And still she stares at her now empty bed. She won’t turn and look through the open window at the dawn that has wounded her so badly she has crumpled to the floor.

She had to.

…|…

_Bleep, bleep, bleep_ , the alarm goes off, _bleep, bleep, bleep_.

There is sunshine streaming through the open window. It’s everywhere and for the first time she doesn’t greet the sun with joy but with apprehension and slight nausea.

_Bleep, bleep, bleep._

Another day, she reminds herself, just another day. Yet she can’t tell if he’s still there or not, lurking in the shadows here, somewhere, or gone. Gone. She can’t even imagine.

_Bleep, bleep, bleep._

She flops back onto her bed, stares at the ceiling.

_Bleep, bleep, bleep._

“I love you,” all she can seem to remember.

She doesn’t know if it’s her words or his that she is remembering, but it doesn’t matter, doesn’t change their importance: “I love you,” she wants to cry.

She hasn’t cried in so long that she isn’t even sure she still can, just like she wasn’t sure that she could love. But now she realizes that she can, so maybe she’ll just lay in her room, on her bed, and cry. For him, for her. “I love you.”

_Bleep, bleep, bleep._


End file.
